


Exit the Crucible

by St_Salieri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Purgatory, Season/Series 07-08 hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:12:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/St_Salieri/pseuds/St_Salieri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam was never taught to be a caregiver.  After Dean returns from Purgatory, he has to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit the Crucible

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://theheartofspn.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://theheartofspn.livejournal.com/)**theheartofspn** LoveFest.

 

Sam eased the car to a stop by the side of the road and shut off the engine. Fog crept around the base of the clump of trees that sat a hundred yards away from the dirt road they'd been driving down for the last half hour. It was fixing to be a hot day, and chances were the fog would burn off entirely before the job was done. At the moment, though, it gave the empty field a suitably eerie look for what they had to do.

"All right," Sam said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "It's just a quick salt and burn. An hour tops, and we're out of here. You good, Dean?"

The words were habit, nothing more. He didn't expect an answer, and he didn't get one. Dean fumbled with his own belt, following Sam's lead, and climbed out of the car.

The trunk was a jumbled pile of tools, shovels dripping mud onto the upholstery, and Sam winced at the mess. He dragged a couple of shovels out and handed them to Dean, who took them obediently. Sam pocketed the lighter fluid and matches - second nature these days to hold onto the dangerous shit himself - and took back one of the shovels, nodding his thanks.

"Swear to God, Joe and Hank owe me the biggest favor," he grumbled, slamming the trunk shut and starting off across the empty field with Dean in tow. "Those two morons are going to get themselves killed one of these days. Seriously, who taught those guys to hunt anyway?"

Dean kept pace silently beside him. Sam glanced over to see if Dean was paying attention, but if he was he couldn't tell from Dean's expression. But Sam had long since stopped looking for any real response, so he just shrugged cheerfully. He had become the undisputed master of the one-sided conversation.

"Yeah, I know. I'm starting to sound like Bobby. Pretty soon I'll start yelling at everyone to get off the goddamned lawn."

Dean edged closer and dug his elbow into Sam's ribs, smiling at Sam's resulting grunt. It was Dean's Gesture of Affection/Annoyance #3, and it reminded Sam of the way Hannah's cats would come up to him as he lazed on the couch and bump their heads against his legs. Sam slung his arm around Dean's shoulder and gave his neck a quick rub - his standard response - and grinned fondly at the way Dean's entire face lit up, quicksilver bright.

The sight of his brother, so open and honestly happy, never failed to make Sam's heart ache, and he had to swallow around the lump in his throat.

 

********************

 

The first year after Dean had broken his way out of Purgatory had been hard. Hard was an understatement, really. Looking back, Sam had no idea how either of them had survived it. The tentative life he'd built for himself during Dean's absence had fallen apart completely, shredded to pieces by the whirlwind of Dean's unexpected resurrection.

Dean had shown up thin and disheveled, with haunted eyes and new bruises scattered over his back and shoulders. Sam had bundled him into the shower and sat on the toilet, afraid to let Dean out of his sight again for a second and babbling about how long he had searched and how he was sorry, so goddamned _sorry_ that he hadn't found a way to get Dean out sooner. Dean hadn't answered, and eventually Sam had peeled back the shower curtain to find Dean standing dumbly in the middle of the tub, staring at his feet, a bar of soap clenched tight in one fist. Sam had gently pulled him out and tossed a towel around his shoulders, dragging him to bed under a constant stream of inane chatter.

He hadn't been particularly worried when Dean didn't answer back. It wasn't like Dean was down with the sharing and caring at the best of times. But when days passed and Dean still wouldn't speak, Sam had begun to panic. More than the silence, it was the way that Dean's eyes would slide past Sam's face while Sam was talking with no spark of recognition or connection.

The decision to get Dean to a doctor had been an easy one, especially when Dean didn't fight him on it. That more than anything had scared the hell out of Sam.

The neurologist had been a friend of Bobby's years ago. Though not a hunter himself, he'd seen enough to know which questions not to ask, and he accepted Sam's story of Dean as a recently discharged vet without blinking an eye. If he suspected their insurance cards were faked, he didn't say anything - a fact for which Sam was profoundly grateful, given the battery of tests he'd decided to run on Dean.

Weeks had passed with no answer, and finally the doctor began to bring up psychological counseling and PTSD.

"There are long-term care facilities that specialize in cases like this," he said gently. "They would have the resources to take care of your brother, and you would be able to live your life while...."

Sam didn't heard the rest, up and out the door with a pliant Dean in his wake and a look of thunder on his face. He practically threw Dean into the passenger seat, buckling his brother's seatbelt with shaky fingers and swearing up a storm. The air inside the car was humid and still by the time he ran out of steam, the sound of Dean's breathing inaudible beneath Sam's harsh breaths. Sam stared straight ahead through the windshield, eyes unfocused and fingers clenched around the steering wheel while he waited to calm down enough to drive.

"I'm not going to dump you somewhere, Dean," he promised, still not able to look at his brother. "We're gonna fix this - I promise you. I'll find a way."

And then he felt Dean's fingers curl around his wrist, shocking him out of his despair. Dean was looking at Sam, really _looking_ at him for the first time since he'd been back. He looked as miserable as Sam felt, so Sam turned his hand so he could squeeze Dean's fingers.

"Dean?" he asked shakily. "You with me?"

There was no answer, and Sam wasn't sure if Dean really understood what was going on or if he was just responding to Sam's emotional state. Either way, it was enough to cause Sam's lips to curl in a shaky smile, a smile that became more real when Dean mirrored the expression.

 _Dude, I'll be fine_. He could almost hear Dean's voice in his head, clear as day. _Look, do what you gotta do. I'm no good to you like this._

And Dean would totally say it, if he could, because his brother was just that stupid. He would argue that Sam should dump him somewhere and get on with his life. And that thought gave Sam a new sense of purpose - he could do this, if only to piss Dean off. It was the time-honored motivation of younger brothers everywhere.

"Don't even think about it, you stubborn bastard," Sam said. Dean just blinked at him. "I know what you're thinking, and it's not going to happen." He started the car, wondering if he'd imagined the momentary look of pleasure that crossed Dean's face at the sound. "Come on. We're going home."

 _Home_ these days was Bobby's small hunting cabin. With all of the charms and spells and devil's traps built into the place, it was pretty much the safest place he could think of - and with the Leviathans pretty well out of the picture, no one was looking for the Winchester brothers these days. Sam had spent the year of Dean's absence fixing up the place - including satellite internet access and a vastly improved plumbing system - and it was about as comfortable as it could possibly be. Sam had hoped that it would trigger some happy memories for Dean, but if Dean recognized it, he gave no sign. For weeks he slept in the bedroom Sam put him in, ate the food Sam gave him, and dressed in the clothes Sam laid out for him without word or complaint. He would watch TV when Sam led him to the couch and turned it on, but Sam couldn't tell if he was enjoying it or even really aware of what was happening.

Some days, Sam wasn't capable of filling up the silence all by himself. He ran out of things to say, grew to hate the sound of his own voice, and wanted to shake Dean until his teeth rattled in his head just to get him to respond in some way.

"The brain is an amazing organ," the doctor had said. "It is incredibly fragile, but at the same time capable of amazing levels of self-repair. Now, there are no guarantees, but given time, you may see some improvement in Dean's condition. No promises, you understand."

It may not have been a promise, but Sam clung to it as if it had been one. He watched and waited and tried not to hope, wondering if he was imagining the times Dean would look at him and seem to really see him. For every possible step forward there were a series of disappointing setbacks, but eventually Sam felt optimistic enough to say that Dean was definitely improving.

He still wouldn't speak, but as the weeks passed into months he responded more and more to Sam's presence. He would follow Sam with his eyes, his face lighting up whenever Sam came into the room. He expressed definite preferences when Sam gave him a choice of foods, and eventually he started picking out his own clothing. The day he sulked at Sam's choice of music in the car, Sam burst out laughing.

"Whatever, dude," he said. "When you can bitch at me to change it, you can pick what you want. It gives you something to work toward."

The day Sam found Dean tinkering under the hood of the car, he felt like his face would split open with the force of his grin.

He still didn't know how well Dean really knew him, whether he understood concepts like _brother_ and _family_ and _love_ , or if Sam was just the guy who brought the food and provided the company. He thought he saw that spark of familiarity in Dean's eyes on occasion, and it was enough to get him through the hardest times.

Sam had pretty much taken himself out of hunting entirely after the Leviathan debacle, but he was still on call for the occasional hunter who needed his expertise (or Bobby's stack of books). Being a researcher had its upside, in the sense that he was still able to help - maybe pitching in on the less dangerous jobs in case of emergency - without exposing Dean to danger.

Months turned into years, and Dean's progress seemed to plateau. Without entirely meaning to, Sam found himself putting down roots in the small community of loners who lived in the area. The woman who ran the nearest convenience store always had a smile for him, asked after "that poor brother of yours" and snuck an extra pack of Dean's favorite licorice into Sam's bags. The Gulf War vet who owned the gas station seemed to recognize a kindred spirit in Dean, giving Sam a respectful clap on the back and offering Dean a salute that wasn't returned. They adopted a stray mutt who came around the cabin one day and just wouldn't leave. Sam named him Duke, and within a week the animal was utterly and completely devoted to Dean.

As comfortable as he was around Sam, Dean was wary of strangers. The first time the phone guy had come out to the cabin to take a look at their line, Dean had stiffened and stood in front of Sam, a heartrendingly familiar Protective Big Brother attitude vibrating in every muscle. Sam had had to excuse himself to his room, slamming the door shut and collapsing to the floor before he burst into tears, both hands clamped over his mouth to keep Dean from hearing him.

He met Hannah in Year Three AP (After Purgatory). Hannah ran the local tiny library. She had a fast mouth and an even quicker mind, with a sly smile that made Sam's blood burn. It was almost inevitable when they fell into a relationship. Dean viewed her with his usual suspicion when she first came around, but she won him over with how comfortable she was around him.

"I've got a brother on the spectrum," she told Sam once. "I know it's not the same thing, but he doesn't talk either."

As inevitable as their relationship was, the end was perhaps even more inevitable. There was no big falling out, just a gradual falling apart. Sam could tell that she wanted more than he could give. He'd had those same dreams, once upon a time - of couplehood, of comfort, of normality - but a decade of angels and demons and being the pawn of every supernatural piece of shit that crawled the Earth had left him scarred. He could recognize the boy he used to be in the life she craved, but the man he was had abandoned those dreams long ago.

And besides, he couldn't bring anyone else into his family. Not now, not with Dean like this.

On his darkest days, Sam resented Dean – for his silence, for his neediness, for the way he still managed to get under Sam's skin and irk the hell out of him without saying a word. But without fail, the momentary irritation he felt for his brother would be swallowed up by a wave of guilt and self-loathing. Because deep down, he knew it was his fault. He hadn't managed to save Dean in time - _again_ \- and that failure ate a hole in his gut and kept him awake in the darkest hours of the night.

Once or twice over the past few years, when things had gotten particularly bad, Sam had wondered if it wouldn't be better for both of them to just end it on his terms. He had nightmares of getting hurt, getting sick, getting in a goddamn car accident of all things, and leaving Dean on his own without anyone to look out for him. _Dean would hate to live like this,_ the voice in his head would whisper. _You'd be doing him a favor. Let him go. Let him have some dignity._

It scared Sam more than he wanted to admit that he couldn't distinguish that voice from Lucifer's.

But then Sam would see Dean working on the car, or chasing Duke around the yard, or giving Sam a big smile that held no shadow of the old Dean's self-loathing smirk. And no matter what happened between them, Sam could never hate Dean as much as he hated himself. He supposed that was something he and Dean had in common, back when Dean was still Dean.

He knew that people viewed him with pity - _what a shame, that nice young man stuck caring for his brother like that._ But they couldn't see the darkness that still gnawed at his insides, and they would never understand the fear that, ultimately, he was nothing more than a monster.

He knew they saw his world as compressed and stagnant. They couldn't possibly understand how expansive - how _freeing_ \- his small world with Dean actually was.

 

********************

 

The smell of smoke hung heavy on their clothes, and Sam laughed as Dean wrinkled his nose.

"Yeah, me too," he said, handing Dean one of the shovels and tipping the other over his own shoulder. "When we get back, I'll let you have first shower, okay?"

The early morning fog had indeed burned off as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and the day promised to be hot and fine. Sam was sweating through his layers already, and he wondered idly when flannel had become the official hunter's uniform even on the muggiest of days. The salt and burn had been an easy one - no ghost appearing at the last minute to throw a wrench in the works - and Dean had clearly enjoyed the repetitive exercise. Sam watched as his brother studied the landscape, then focused on something in the distance. His eyes narrowed, and he walked a little faster to put himself in front of Sam. Sam frowned and let his eyes scan the horizon, trying to figure out what Dean had seen. It didn't take more than a second.

Someone was leaning against their waiting car.

There wasn't another car in sight - and Sam would have been able to hear one approach - so whoever this was must have walked. Sam jogged to catch up with Dean and felt at the small of his back for the knife he kept tucked close whenever they worked a job. Probably an overreaction on his part, but it never hurt to be cautious.

When Sam recognized the waiting figure, his knees almost gave way. He stopped dead for a moment, then surged ahead and grabbed Dean's arm, stopping him about a dozen feet from the car.

The hair was wild and untamed, the eyes dull and listless in the pale face, but the person leaning against the car was unmistakably Castiel.

He straightened up as they approached and surveyed them gravely. Unbelievably, he was dressed in the ever-present trench coat, dress shirt and loosened tie beneath. He looked like a businessman on a week-long bender, and Sam repressed the urge to laugh hysterically.

"Sam," Cas said with a polite nod, before fixing his attention on Dean. "Hello, Dean."

"Cas," Sam said. His voice came out strangled, as if he had been gargling with glass. The last time he'd seen Castiel had been the night Dick Roman died and Dean vanished. Sam had always assumed that he'd been dragged to Purgatory along with Dean, and that he had probably died there. Dean hadn't been able to tell him otherwise. "You're...you're here," he said dumbly.

Dean shifted next to him, and Sam realized that he was still grabbing Dean's arm protectively with a grip that was uncomfortably tight. He made himself let go and watched Dean's face carefully. Dean was looking curiously at Castiel, a certain wariness in his expression that made Sam suspect that he didn't entirely recognize Cas. It made Sam fiercely glad, for some reason.

"Come on," Sam said to Dean, tugging him to the rear of the car. He made himself turn his back on Cas to dump their tools in the trunk. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, but he refused to let Dean see his reaction. Instead he led Dean back to the front of the car, sidestepping Cas, and got Dean settled into the front seat. Then Sam whirled away from the open door and advanced on Cas, who was still standing by the side of the car with a lost expression on his face.

"What are you doing here?" Sam hissed. He tried to keep his voice low so as not to worry Dean, but he suspected he wasn't doing a very good job of it. "Now, after all this time? It's been _years_ , Cas!"

Cas blinked at him, looking as lost as Dean had looked when he'd first been returned.

"I'm sorry," he said. The words sounded rusty, as if the voice was unused to speaking more than a word or two at a time. "I came when I could. It...it wasn't easy."

Sam took a deep breath and forced the anger back. He thought he'd gotten over those months after Dean's return, months of calling on Cas for help with no response. Clearly he wasn't as over it as he'd thought.

"Sorry," Sam forced himself to say. "I just..." he stuttered to a close, trying to find a way to describe what his life - what _their_ lives - had become. "It hasn't been easy," he echoed, unable to think of anything else to say.

Cas nodded and looked at the ground. He seemed more tired than Sam had ever seen him, a near transparency to his features that made it seem as if Sam was seeing beyond the vessel to the being beneath.

"Can you help him?"

It was a question he hadn't meant to ask, and Sam bit his tongue hard when the words came out without his permission. He'd given up hope of a miracle long ago, and the last thing he needed for his mental equilibrium was the rush of stupid, blind optimism that had replaced his earlier anger at seeing Castiel.

Cas looked pained, his features creased with a sudden sorrow that looked as old as the universe. Maybe it was.

"I don't know," he said slowly, eyes flicking up to study Sam's face before falling back to the ground. "I don't know how much of me I still have left."

The air of finality in those words chilled Sam to the bone, and he bit his tongue again at the urge to keep apologizing. They were beyond bland the bland "sorry" at this point, with everything that had passed between them. He wanted to offer something – a pat on the back, some stupid words of comfort, but nothing came to mind. Cas gave him a shadowed half-smile, as if he knew what Sam was thinking and appreciated it anyway. Then he walked over to the open car door and knelt down next to Dean.

"Dean," Cas said, and Sam could hear the fondness in the single word. Dean blinked at him, forehead creased, and his eyes jumped to Sam's as if asking permission. Sam gave a tiny nod and watched as Dean relaxed fractionally.

Cas reached out and put his hand on Dean's head - _laying on of hands_ , Sam thought, and shivered at the way the air seemed to compress. The atmosphere flickered with electricity as if a storm was approaching. Sam watched Dean shut his eyes and braced himself to leap forward and rip Cas's arm away if it seemed as if his brother was in real pain. The light grew around them, and Sam could hear Castiel muttering words under his breath. A sudden flash of light made Sam's eyes slam shut involuntarily, and when he opened them Dean was sitting in the front seat alone. Cas was nowhere to be seen.

"Cas?" Sam called, scanning the horizon. "Castiel?" The breeze blew his words away, and it was as if the angel had never been there. Sam wondered if he really had been, or if he'd imagined the whole thing.

He stumbled over to the car on unsteady legs and knelt in the open door next to Dean, taking Cas's place. Dean looked dazed, eyes large in his pale face, but he looked over at Sam and blinked himself awake when Sam shook his shoulder.

"Hey," Sam said, trying for a reassuring smile. "You doing okay?" He paused, holding his breath, and tried so hard not to hope. The inevitable lack of answer from Dean wasn't unexpected, but it still ached anyway. He gave a pained smile and patted his brother's shoulder, starting to pull away. He jerked to a halt when Dean took hold of his sleeve in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Sammy."

The voice was almost unrecognizable in its roughness, and it took Sam a long moment to convince himself he'd heard it at all. He gaped at Dean and the open smile on his face - still so unlike the old Dean, but so unbelievably precious - and eventually found his voice.

"Dean? Do you...do you know me?"

He couldn't help the way his eyes welled up, and he blinked hard to keep Dean's face in focus. He almost missed the hint of fond big brother annoyance that crossed Dean's face like a flash of lighting. It was a hint of the old Dean, there and gone so quick that Sam wasn't sure that he'd really seen it at all.

"Sammy," Dean said again, his voice low and rough and unmistakable now.

Sam dropped his head and grabbed at Dean's knee, a sudden laugh that sounded more like a sob torn from his throat. He felt Dean's hand settle on his head, fingers rubbing the back of his neck in an unmistakable imitation of Sam's gesture of comfort, and the tears he'd tried to hold back fell like rain.

When he finally raised his head he saw Dean looking out across the empty fields, a look of peace on his face. He gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze and dropped his hand, saying nothing more. Sam wanted to take hold of him and shake more words out of him, but he held himself back. The gratitude he felt for this simple moment was almost overwhelming, even not knowing if it would ever be repeated.

In the end, it didn't matter.

"Thank you," he breathed to the empty air, getting to his feet and scanning the horizon. He didn't even know how heavy the burden had been until it had suddenly been lightened. He looked down at Dean and gave him a smile, one which Dean easily returned.

"Come on," he said, voice hoarse. "Let's go home."

 


End file.
